Of Blood Of Death Of Vengeance
by Mindtrick
Summary: On the eve of a new mission against an Ork incursion, troubled Captain Drewan Gramno, of the Pyrus Imperial Remnant finds peace the only way he can.


**Of Blood. Of Death. Of Vengeance.**

Drewan Gramno, Captain of Stormfire Company of the Pyrus 4th Imperial Remnant, sat poring over details of his Company's next mission in the half-light cast by his desk light. He sipped Whiskfire from a heavy glass tumbler, as his eyes fixated on key details_...__Widespread destruction...Greenskin __presence__...__thousands...guerilla tactics...__aid requested. _His ornate bolt pistol lay close at hand. He found himself lost in its intricate gilded manufacture. It was a marvel of arcane technology, etched with fine scrollwork and Gothic stylisation. Gifted to him for deeds inconsequential to him any longer. This pistol could end it all.

This pistol could save his soul.

Drewan refilled his glass and slugged another shot back. It barely touched the chasm of emptiness he felt inside. Drewan opened the top drawer of his desk, revealing a small black leather package bound in black lace. He placed it gently atop his report-slates and fumbled with the knots. Inside was a small subcutaneous needle and syringe, a piece of rubber tubing and a bottle of clear fluid. His hands adeptly filled the chamber of the syringe. He tied the rubber tightly across his left bicep and by pumping his hand into a fist, he forced a thick vein to protrude through his skin. The needle found the pronounced vein and the clear liquid burned as Drewan slowly squeezed the plunger, emptying the chamber. He grimaced feeling the alien substance ignite in his blood stream. He hated himself for resorting to this, but he needed peace. He untied the rubber around his bicep, gathered the tools of his addiction and secured them out of sight of prying eyes once again.

As if tormenting himself over his weakness to resort to drugs such as these, he ashamedly ran a hand through his short brown hair as if to wipe away his guilt. The grimace still plainly etched across his features. He scratched his once regal grey flecked beard, that he kept close to his strong jaw. It was now unkempt, scruffy, haggard. A sense of detachment grew as his green eyes, once so full of life, now hard and lifeless as the molten stone that covered Pyrus, dilated.

He tossed the report-slate onto the desk and turned in his chair. His room aboard _the Avenging Flame_ cruiser was a Spartan one. A Company-Captain could demand more epicurean quarters such as these but Drewan had no desire for luxury and comfort. A desk, a simple bed, a cabinet and a wardrobe were all that adorned his room. The only embellishment came from the brackets set into the wall neatly above the head of his bed. These iron brackets held the possessions now most important to him. His blessed war-gear. Newly minted from the forges of the nearby planet, Herloen. A cutlass style power sword, built for slashing and hacking in the close quarter combat he preferred. Drewan was a tall, lithe man but his swordsmanship was of brutal efficiency, not finesse. It hung low in a scabbard, depicted with sign of the Aquila, attached to a thick brown leather belt. When fully kitted in his modified flak armour it would rest over his left hip, ready to be unsheathed and put to use.

Drewan allowed himself a small, bitter half-smile as he swallowed the remaining potent liquor. It was a rare sight these days. A melancholia had taken hold of him with an iron fist and refused to let him go. The only thing he now lived for was battle and revenge. He was eager to be planetside once again. To feel the ground beneath his boots. To feel alive again in the crucible of war. Greenskins were a savage and bestial race, guaranteed providers of the heated conflict he craved. That he enjoyed putting them to the sword, would be an understatement. In times such as these, the affirmation of life must be found wherever it can.

He rose from his chair and moved to lay on his low iron bed frame, picking a pictslate from his bedside cabinet as he did. The drugs were beginning to take hold. Fast-acting and powerful the liquid raced through his veins leaving tracks of fire in its wake, dulling all sensations, all sorrows. A thick fog gathered in his mind, obscuring all real thought and anxiety. Numbness seeped through his limbs, and a heaviness descended over his prone form.

With last of his energy, he raised the slate above his face. The screen fizzed into life with a push of a button to show a pict of a family picnic, set in a landscape of lush green grass, soaring ancient trees and a babbling stream racing over pebbles and rocks. To Drewan, it was utopia. Completely at odds with the endless war within the Imperium. It was his family. His beautiful blonde haired wife, with her sparkling blue eyes, sitting pretty on a blanket of tartan design, a soft hand raised to her brow to shield her eyes from the bright sun. His beautiful boys with golden curls, chubby rose cheeks and mischievous green eyes like his own, were caught playing together over his wife's delicate shoulder. Oblivious they all had been to the coming destruction, the tragedy. Guilt racked his body. He ached with the loss, the loneliness, the pain.

Drewan grazed a gnarled finger across their faces and returned the slate to its home next to his bed. He pulled the covers up and over his shoulders. He would need his rest. Tomorrow would see _the Avenging Flame_ arrive at the planet Yirador. Tomorrow would see six thousand sons of Pyrus, descend on the vile Orks, that dared venture into Imperial territory, with flames of retribution.

Tomorrow would be a day of blood. Of death. Of vengeance.

As his eyes grew heavy, even the overwhelming feelings of retaliation and sorrow could not hold purchase on his mind, dissipating completely into wisps of grey smoke. He gently touched two fingers to his lips.

_For you, Emmah._


End file.
